


Girl

by pauraque



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: pornish_pixies, Consent Issues, Dom/sub, F/F, Humiliation, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-26
Updated: 2006-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/pseuds/pauraque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The package arrives at lunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girl

**Author's Note:**

> For the Fantasy Fest at Pornish Pixies. I wrote for Violetfishy's prompt: "Hermione/Pansy - P is dominant and H is a willing submissive. P treats H like a slave girl and H really gets off on it. Shades of dub-con. Also, straps-ons are awesome."
> 
> Thanks for an inspirational request!

The package arrives at lunch. Hermione nearly can't believe it, can't believe she was mad enough to try and that it _worked_ , the owl picked it up from her parents' doorstep, and now it's here. The plain brown cardboard is dusty against her fingertips.

'What'd you get?' Ron asks, craning his neck to look.

'Must be an early birthday present,' she manages, aware of her voice sounding tight and high. The evil eyes of the Slytherin girls are following her as she clutches the box to her chest and hastily leaves the table, her sandwiches untouched.

She takes the steps two at a time up to the dormitory; has a stitch in her side when she gets to the top. She hops onto her bed and draws the curtains shut around her. Rips the package open with trembling fingers.

It's shiny blue and curved, with gentle ridges along the top. Every quiet click and stir of the castle makes her jump as she unwraps the toy. Plastic and bits of styrofoam seem strange to have here; she is careful not to let them fall on the floor.

Even reading the descriptions in the catalogue aroused her. She read them until she practically knew them by heart, turning the thin, crumpled pages as softly as she could, pressing the heel of her palm hard against herself. But now that it's in her hand, it seems so _big_. Why hadn't she ordered a smaller one to start? So stupid, this whole thing is stupid, so wrong, how could she when there are so many important things to worry about...

She lifts her skirt and pushes down her underwear. Rubs the toy experimentally up and down between her lips, her heart pounding. The ridges feel good, and doing it makes her feel... mesmerised somehow, like this can't possibly be real, and that makes it all right.

She changes her grip and presses the tip timidly against her vagina. It's wider than her two fingers and she feels the stretch immediately. Tight at the entrance, but deeper inside she feels so hollow and wanting. She tries to push further, but the pain stops her. She holds it there, just barely stretching her hymen — just _that_ much, and the pain feels good. She twists it a little, corkscrews it marginally deeper, and the tug of it drives her mad. She's rubbing her clitoris with her other hand. Aching for it, she just _can't_ push it any farther, but she comes anyway, the toy no more than an inch inside.

She lies there more surprised than anything — she's never finished that quickly before, and she wasn't ready for it, doesn't feel done. She puts the toy down on the mattress between her thighs (the head of it is glistening wet) and strokes herself lightly, her fingertips familiar and comforting now.

A real click — the door opening — and she freezes. Must be Lavender or Parvati, but the step is slow, even cautious, not a girl rushing up to grab a book before lunch is over. Hollow steps clack carefully closer to her bed, but Hermione doesn't move, doesn't hide her toy, because she really can't believe it's going to happen until Pansy throws the bedcurtain back, legs planted apart and eyes wide, her flat face suffused with uncertainty and triumph.

'Oh my God!' says Pansy.

'How did you get in here!' Hermione cries stupidly, knowing full well that the castle has been letting members of the Inquisitorial Squad go wherever they like.

Pansy doesn't answer. Her face is as red as if she's been caught at something herself. A breathless giggle escapes her. 'Oh my God,' she says again. 'You actually were— doing yourself. With that.'

Hermione clutches at her sheets, fumbling to cover herself.

'This is how Muggle girls _satisfy_ themselves, is it? Oh! You filthy little thing.'

Pansy seems to be warming up to her tirade as she goes on, shock and embarrassment fading into a pure pleasure that sends Hermione's stomach into somersaults.

'I should report you to the Headmistress this instant for bringing such foul, disgusting Muggle contraband into this school!'

Hermione chokes on her own breath, her words coming out half-strangled. 'Oh no, please don't, I beg you. I'll do anything, just please don't tell!'

'Oh, I _bet_ you'll do anything,' Pansy says in a low hiss, now grinning a mile wide. 'You absolute _slut_.'

Hermione can only sit there, half covered, her cheeks as hot as though they've been slapped.

'Be at my dormitory tonight after dinner,' Pansy says, turning back to the door, 'and I might _consider_ not telling.' She slams the door, and Hermione can hear her laughter and racing footfalls echoing all the way down the corridor.

*

The air is cold and dry down Hermione's throat as she walks stiffly down the hall to Pansy's room, trying to look as though she has every legitimate reason in the world to be there. The Slytherin prefects get rooms of their own, which Harry and Ron think is evidence of blatant unfairness, but Hermione knows is probably because there are fewer Slytherin students than there used to be.

She half expects to find the entire Slytherin student body there to mock her, but when the door opens at her quiet knock (almost too promptly, as though Pansy had been waiting with her ear to the door), Pansy is alone, still in her uniform. She seizes Hermione by the wrist and pulls her inside, glancing out into the hallway suspiciously before shutting them inside.

The room is a mess, books and clothes all over the floor, and Hermione is surprised. She's always thought of Pansy as horrid, but not slovenly.

'You didn't bring your idiot friends in that cloak of theirs, did you?'

'No,' Hermione says with attempted indignance, though the reality of her stomach-twisting anxiety makes it fall flat. Harry and Ron think she's at the library.

'I've decided to take you up on your offer,' Pansy says, standing so close that their skirts brush against each other. She's a few inches taller than Hermione. 'I won't tell anyone what I caught you at. And _you'll_ do anything I say.'

Hermione swallows, struggling not to take a step back. 'I suppose you want me to... to do your homework, or something,' she says, a feeble jab at the dread and humiliation that seem to fill her whole body.

'I'm not stupid, you know,' Pansy snaps, and turns on her heel. 'You can start by picking up this room. It's almost as filthy as you are.' She sits down on her neatly made bed, gathers up her legs beneath her, and watches expectantly, waiting to see what Hermione will do. Pansy's demeanour is calm but Hermione notices her breath is shallow, her eyes dilated-dark.

And then Hermione understands. Pansy has intentionally strewn her belongings all over the floor, just to watch Hermione pick them up.

They look at each other for a long moment. Hermione feels cold and shivery low in her stomach, like she feels when she's somewhere up high and trying not to look down. Pansy's challenging stare flickers, falters for the smallest of moments. She isn't certain that Hermione will obey.

Hermione slowly bends over and picks up a green blouse from the floor. Pansy squares her shoulders and smiles.

She picks up all of Pansy's things. School books. Returned homework with thin bloodred lines of Snape's handwriting. A black skirt shorter than is allowed. Her heart is still beating fast. Pansy directs her where to put each item, pointing this way and that. Her fingernails are uncoloured and longer than Hermione's. ('Just there. Not there, the other drawer! Useless girl.')

It takes a long time — Pansy prepared the room well — and as Hermione goes on, Pansy gets quieter. _She's getting tired of it,_ Hermione thinks. _She's starting to think it's silly._

She glances up just to check Pansy's expression, and Most Potente Potions slips from her fingers, banging to the floor.

Pansy is leaning back against her headboard now, her skirt pulled up, fingers slipped into the side of her knickers, lazily touching herself as Hermione slaves for her.

A tiny voice of reason cries that Hermione must recoil in horror, must rain down cruel insults and threats — take control — but she is frozen, agog.

Pansy is smiling. With her unoccupied hand, she points down at the floor. 'Pick up my stockings,' she says. 'Dirty girl.'

Her face burning, Hermione can only manage to obey, picking up the crumpled, silky white stockings and putting them where she is told. She feels almost as though she is going to cry, but she holds the tightness in her chest, looking only at the floor and trying to ignore the feeling of dampness bewteen her own legs.

When the room is tidied, Hermione reluctantly glances up again. Pansy isn't touching herself anymore, but her fingers are glistening and she wears a self-satisfied smile.

'Same time tomorrow, then?'

*

She never calls Hermione by her name. Always 'bad girl' and 'filthy girl', and as time goes by sometimes just 'girl' with the same sneer.

Pansy makes up little tasks for Hermione to do. She makes her bring pasties from the kitchen and eats them in front of her with rapturous delight, reclining on the bed while Hermione stands stiff and tight-lipped, her hands clasped behind her back. Sometimes she orders her to do nothing more than sit still and be quiet, as if simply to control her is what pleases Pansy most of all.

The dildo sits in its package in the drawer beside Hermione's bed, unused. Hermione thinks about it every day.

Hermione is trying to follow the faraway specks of red and green against the cottonball sky, but Pansy is sitting at the other end of the bleacher section with her girls, and Hermione's gaze keeps sliding off to the right towards her. Pansy crosses her legs, knee over knee, and flicks her dangling foot idly. Her shoes are clunky black, and Hermione finds herself staring at the dull gleam that moves back and forth across the polished leather.

Pansy leans back with a sigh and spreads her arms lazily along the empty bleacher row behind her; Hermione can see the two little bumps in her blouse. The other girls are sitting up, squinting into the sky, and Pansy turns to look at Hermione with a slow, feline smile.

It's like the feeling of picking up a Portkey, being jerked like a puppet from somewhere deep in her belly. Her head feels light, like she is dreaming, and she has to look away and stomp her feet on the ground a few times to feel real again.

'Cold?' Harry says, looking at her askance.

'Yes,' says Hermione, though if anything she feels like she is burning.

*

The Saturday afternoon light filters in from the high, narrow windows as Pansy unbuttons her blouse. She's wearing a bra, so crisp and white it must be new. Hermione flushes; she doesn't wear those yet.

'Rub my back,' she says, lazily hanging her shirt on her bedpost. She lies down on her stomach, letting her hair fall down around her ears, not even watching to see if Hermione will do it. It's the first time Pansy has told Hermione to touch her.

She sits down cautiously on the bed and places her fingertips against the pale curve of Pansy's lower back, just above the waistband of her skirt. She rubs in gradual circles, her heart pounding hard. When she used to think about Viktor touching her, it was like this. Her thumbs pass over the bumps of Pansy's spine as she skips over the straps of her bra to touch the small of her back. Pansy has two little birthmarks side by side on the edge of one of her shoulderblades, and Hermione touches her there, too. Pansy is still, but Hermione can feel her rapid heartbeat beneath her ribcage, running counter to the pulse she feels within her own fingertips.

Pansy has recently cut her hair into a short pageboy, and the tangled way it falls around her ears makes it seem as though she showered not long before Hermione came here today. As she leans in further, she scents the shampoo, the faintly lime-smelling kind all the girls' dormitory bathrooms are stocked with. The back of Pansy's neck feels rough, lately shaven.

Pansy suddenly shifts, pushes herself up a bit. Hermione's hands jerk away, tensing as though she's done something wrong. But Pansy only reaches back and unhooks her bra, pulls it out from under herself, and settles back down against the mattress again.

Hermione now presses the heels of her hands all the way up Pansy's back, from waist to shoulders on either side of her spine. Pansy makes a muffled noise into her pillow, her hips shifting. Hermione's mouth is dry and she's afraid of what might happen next, but she feels almost enchanted or dreaming, unable to change the course of events — unable to _want_ to change them.

The sun from the window grows yellow and thin, lighting up the white ceiling of Pansy's bedroom and leaving the rest half-dim. When Pansy at last rolls over onto her back, her round breasts look exceptionally pale in the reflected light. Her nipples are round too, small and neat and pink. Pansy takes her by the wrist and draws her trembling hand to her breast.

'Touch me,' she murmurs, and Hermione can only obey, caressing her — the softness of the outer side, near her underarm, and the plump fullness beneath. When she brushes her thumb lightly over her nipple, Pansy gasps sharply, and Hermione has to press her thighs together hard.

Pansy's hand slides down her stomach and under the waistband of her skirt, and even as she arches against her fingers with a grunt, she never stops watching Hermione's eyes, as though challenging her to look.

'Use your mouth,' Pansy breathes, which makes Hermione realise she's had her jaw hanging open for ages. She swallows, wetting her tongue. She has to shift down the bed to lean down that far, trying to tuck her hair back behind her ears. It seems to take forever for her mouth to reach Pansy's breasts, and when she gets there, the first licks are awkward and sloppy. The salty taste of another girl's skin is strange, and it seems more impossible than ever that this is really happening.

But Hermione learns to shape her lips and tongue to caress Pansy's nipples, compensating for the give of the soft flesh beneath. She suckles one and strokes the other with her fingertips, and Pansy is bucking hard into her own hand. Hermione can _feel_ the gasps and half-voiced sighs from Pansy's chest, and surprisingly soon she twists hard, arches up — grasps hard at Hermione's hair. She shudders silently for a few moments, and then relaxes onto the bed. Hermione doesn't know what to do, so she just lies there with her cheek resting against the side of Pansy's breast.

The room is going quite dark now, the windows twilight blue. Pansy's fingers are still entangled in Hermione's hair.

'Tomorrow,' Pansy says, and Hermione can feel the vibrations of her voice, 'I want you to bring that... that thing you use on yourself.'

Pansy's body has gone tense. She is waiting for an answer. There is a faint stirring in the hallways outside the room, perhaps the other Slytherin girls coming downstairs.

'Okay,' Hermione whispers.

*

She stands up straight in front of her mirror. Her uniform is immaculate, her hair drawn back as neatly as it ever is.

Weak, she thinks. Selfish. Slut. She hears the words like whispers in her ear.

'Dirty...' she finally manages in a hoarse voice.

She retrieves the box from her bureau quickly so that she doesn't have time to stop herself, and takes the steps briskly two at a time as she goes down towards the Slytherin dormitories.

*

'Give it to me,' Pansy says, and Hermione hands her the box. Her face is hot, and there's a squirmy tingle down low in her stomach.

'Take off your clothes,' Pansy says.

Hermione's hands are trembling as she unbuttons her blouse, her body flooding with anxiety and _relief_ , relief that Pansy's eyes are hard and steady, that her back is straight, that she knows she is in charge. Hermione has narrow hips and her stomach isn't flat, and her skin isn't creamy-smooth. She avoids Pansy's gaze but still feels it on her body as she steps out of her skirt and peels her knickers down her legs.

When she stands naked before her, Pansy takes a few swaggering steps forward until they stand toe to toe. Holding the box in one hand, she lightly runs her a fingertip around Hermione's small breast. Her nipples tighten, and she can't help arching her back, pushing forward for more.

Pansy laughs and turns on her heel, gesturing carelessly at the bed. 'Lie down, girl.'

Hermione lies down on her back, folds her hands together on her bare stomach, as though waiting for the doctor to examine her. She watches with shallow breath as Pansy opens the box and takes out the dildo, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. The open-mouthed face of disbelieving disgust she pulls makes Hermione remember for a fleeting moment why she hated her.

'What a dirty slut,' she hisses almost rapturously, and a deep shudder rolls through Hermione that makes her toes curl.

Pansy lifts her skirt. Her knickers are pink, with a dark wet spot on the front that she doesn't conceal. She changes her grip and places the toy against her crotch, sticking out as though it's her penis. She regards it musingly.

'Is this what you want?' she purrs. 'You want some boy to put his prick up inside you?'

Hermione's hands slide down to her sides; she grasps at the sheets. Pansy retrieves her wand from the school robes that hang on a hook by the door, murmurs a sticking charm, and now when she takes her hand away the dildo stays jutting up from between her legs and keeping her skirt pushed up. She gets on her knees on the mattress by Hermione's feet, and it bounces as she moves.

'Do you want to look at me?' she says, unbuttoning her shirt. She isn't wearing a bra today. 'Look at my tits. Do you think they're pretty?'

Hermione swallows and nods. She feels dizzy, like falling through the world.

Pansy slides her hands under Hermione's knees and lifts, pushing them apart, spreading her thighs open.

'Look at you,' Pansy says with a crooked smile as she crawls up on top of her, sliding her hips down. Hermione feels the end of the toy brush against her leg. 'You love this. How absolutely _foul_.'

She presses the head of her cock against Hermione's hymen, and Hermione closes her eyes, bites her lip. Pansy pushes, and there's the heated stretch, the pain. Hermione feels herself stretching, filling up, the ridges providing friction against places never touched before. She gasps sharply, and then breathes out hard through her mouth, and the toy is— _Pansy_ is inside her.

It takes a few awkward tries to get the angle right, but then Pansy begins to push in and out of her slowly, and it's driving Hermione insane, this feeling of gradual, nearly unbearable fullness and then simultaneous anguish and relief as it goes away.

'You want more, little girl?' Pansy says, her face and chest flushed and words broken with quick breathing. 'Do you want me to fuck you?'

'Oh God,' Hermione says; she can't stop grinding up against Pansy's hips. 'Yes. Please. Yes.'

Pansy re-steadies herself and pushes in harder, faster, and she is, she's _fucking_ Hermione, skirt and stockings on, blouse open and her tie hanging down between her breasts, both bouncing as she vigourously thrusts.

'You deserve this, don't you?' Pansy pants, and it's then that Hermione realises that she _does_ , and she hears herself half-scream in pleasure and fear of pleasure, so good that it's too much, a helpless rollercoaster freefall.

And Pansy pushes hard all the way inside her and holds there, and as she does she grasps Hermione's hand, so strong and solid, and Hermione's other hand flies to meet it too, and she is holding, held, anchored this time as Pansy keeps going and another climax shudders through her as she presses up to be filled and hangs onto Pansy like she will drown if she lets go.

Pansy stays there for what feels like minutes, still holding her hand. Hermione does not want to move, but at last Pansy's grip softens, and when Hermione looks, Pansy's eyes are dilated and hawkish, and her breathing is still ragged. She puts her palms down on the mattress and pulls out, wringing another gasp from Hermione.

Pansy puts the toy aside and takes off her skirt and knickers. She hasn't got any hair down there, and Hermione feels momentarily childish that she hasn't shaved hers. Pansy moves up the bed, and then up some more, and more, and Hermione starts to ask what she's doing, and then she swings her leg around and suddenly Hermione is looking straight up at Pansy's pink, spread lips, her swelled clit.

'Use your mouth,' Pansy says unnecessarily as she grasps the headboard of the bed and lowers herself down, and Hermione can hear in her voice a tone of raw unguarded need.

Pansy hovers over her at first, letting her lick, but then grinds against her mouth and nose so that she can barely breathe. She tastes like the ocean, and the smell is like Hermione herself, but different too, making her head swim. She doesn't know what to do with her hands, so she puts her palms just above Pansy's arse, afraid to touch her too much, to grip too hard.

The sounds Pansy is making are not theatre, they're real and desperate, and she's bucking harder now. She gasps something that sounds like 'I can't', and pulls off, rolling down onto her back. As Hermione sucks in her breath, Pansy grasps by the arm, her hands slippery with sweat, and tries to pull her around. Hermione catches on and moves down so she's between Pansy's legs; Pansy slides both hands into her hair and draws her in, and Hermione begins licking her again. She's never done this or had it done, and just as she's starting to fear she can't do it well enough, Pansy's cries reach a crescendo and her thighs clench, trembling.

Hermione continues licking gently for a few moments, not sure if Pansy is completely done, and then rests her cheek against Pansy's thigh.

Finally she looks up, and wipes her lips tentatively with her fingertips. Pansy is gazing down at her with her head cocked, hair tousled, and crooks her finger, just barely beckoning. Hermione crawls up on hands and knees, aware of her breasts jiggling as she does so. Pansy props herself up a bit more, and Hermione sits up so her bare arse is bestride Pansy's thighs, and they're looking at each other. Hermione's thighs are spread, and Pansy runs her finger through her open pussy, along the side of her clitoris. She sucks in a short breath through her teeth, and her back arches.

As Pansy licks Hermione's wetness from her fingers, her other hand rises, and she runs her thumb lightly along Hermione's eyebrow, smoothing it.

'Dirty little girl,' she says softly.

They both shift inward slightly, and their nipples are almost touching, and for a moment Hermione is certain that they are going to kiss. A flicker of uncertainty wavers across Pansy's face. She is not certain anymore what Pansy is going to do.

Hermione closes her eyes anyway, and waits.


End file.
